A Proper Battle
by MiniFruitbat
Summary: War looms between South Gondor and fief Lebennin. A Northern Ranger is bound as squire to the land's young prince, but how can you die for someone you hate? Not a warm and fuzzy story: our protagonist is a bit too pragmatic for honor. Reviews appreciated.


**A Proper Battle**

**Notes and Disclaimer:** Reviews are greatly appreciated, even if they simply say that you lost interest halfway through! Lebennin, Gondor, the Haradrim, the Rangers, LotR, and numerous other testaments of brilliance are Tolkien's. Original characters, especially Paelin, are my own. The Rangers in this story are from the North, not nearby Ithilien. They speak a different dialect, and grammatical errors in Paelin's speech are intentional. The fact that Paelin is a girl is not meant to be a huge deviation from Tolkien's world. Here, it is assumed that the Dúnedain would willingly train any particularly promising person, though men would outnumber women because of preferences for a quiet village life, the necessities child-rearing, and deaths from childbirth in the Wilds. Lebennin is an actual fief of Gondor: ruled by a Prince and his own lords, but paying homage to Gondor's steward. South Gondor is a vast and disputed land directly south and populated by descendants of both Gondor and Harad. Note how I say _steward_? This is before the War of the Ring, yet still the Third Age. Want a little background on Paelin? Try _On Rangers Through the Winter Months_ and Chapter 2 of _First Kills_. She had a proper conscience when she was younger.

* * *

"I hope you know what you are doing," muttered Therinel, walking swiftly beside his brother. "This is highly unusual. It makes the men nervous."  
"The Rangers have my full confidence in this," said Ietheln, his bright eyes darting between the tents that patched the plain. The old commander could never abandon his training, even when the late afternoon was silent. "I had a Ranger squire once, and he taught me things aught no one else could."  
"But still," Therinel insisted, "this is His Highness' first campaign. Surely a more experienced guard would be better suited? Our enemies may have word that the Prince is with us, and we dare not take such chances."  
"Rangers make formidable enemies," said Ietheln grimly. "If the Prince can befriend this one, he'll have fealty for life. Besides, it should do him well to have a servant unwilling to take petty orders."  
"And if not?"  
"Rangers are loyal to a fault. Even if His Highness incurs such Northern wrath, the boy will guard him with his life. I would not be surprised if his lordship wastes such opportunity, spoiled cretin that he his."  
"My brother, that is treason!" snapped Therinel, his lowered voice almost shrill.  
"Hardly," answered the commander, unperturbed. "Usurping a throne that is not one's own, _that_ is treason. I have no quarrel with our good prince, only in his father's dotage."  
"But a _boy_," he insisted. "Surely the king will have complaints about this arrangement. The Prince should have a whole contingent at his command, guarding him with steel and hand."  
"Oh, it's not the _boy_ that worries me," said Ietheln, a faraway look in his eye as he stared into the horizon.   
"He still has the fourteenth company?" Therinel asked sharply.  
"Yes, yes, his father's orders. They are under his command. I have made sure to include advisors young Bellion will heed. A sheltered life in marble halls does not make a fitting transition to the battlefield."  
"I understand your sentiments," agreed Therinel darkly. "Let us hope his play with war does not upset our numbers more than necessary.  
"He does need to learn," mused the commander, thoughtfully stroking his gray stripe of a beard. 

-

"And you will heed his commands?" Paedern asked, huffing lightly as he scaled the boulders."As much as I deem fitting," Paelin answered coolly.  
"This is not a time for pride," her uncle snapped, training his eye to smoke in the distance. "Learn what you can. Obey what you must. Their ways will seem strange, but you know enough about these people to understand." He swiveled to face her. "How far can you see?" he demanded, one hand on her shoulder and the other pointing into the distance.  
"To the place between two mounts, where cookfires are staged, troops of five hundred sit quartered, and a poorly maintained guard is kept," she answered, deliberately descriptive.  
"And of the horses?"  
"Pegged to the east. Roughly one fifth mounted cavalry, the rest for supply. I can see distance," she insisted.  
"Eyesights change," Paedern said. "It is wise to check." His apprentice made a face. "I tease, Paehl," he sighed, sweeping her into a rare hug. She clenched before returning the gesture.  
"Be good," he warned, taking a proper look at her. "Don't let those fattened soldiers turn you soft." She nodded, understanding. "And work that foreign tongue of yours," he added, grimacing. "I do not want the next poor dame who takes us in being thanked for being _such a kind sir_." The girl almost laughed, but nodded somberly instead.  
Paedern took a composing breath.  
"Stay bound," he continued seriously. "You will get far more respect. If you are injured, if they find out, you need not be ashamed. Just remember what you deal with when certain people know."  
"_A witch, a witch_," Paelin muttered beneath her breath.  
A sort of smile flickered across her uncle's countenance.  
"Make me proud," he said. "It could be a first. This is a favor for an old friend, and good experience for you."  
She nodded solemnly, the harsh words locked aside. He placed a folded packet in her hand.  
"Fresh herbs," he explained, "should you or your charge need them. I cannot believe you did not spot these. Do not trust the foreign leeches for an instant. They deserve the name. Much of their skills are quackery."  
The girl slipped the package to the bottom of her pack.  
"You have food for a few days – save it. They have been instructed to provide you with a horse."  
He bent down on one knee, straightening her lopsided belts in one awkward gesture. The Ranger was never one for tenderness. "And a little advice: They charge you with their prince, as you should well know. Teach him what you can about swordplay. I doubt any tutors the king pays for would have the heart to knock him properly. He will need to know to take a hit."  
An alarming, feral grin spread across Paelin's freckled features. "And also should he deserve it," she remarked.  
He rose thoughtfully and kissed her forehead.  
"Go now," he said. "Ablan will meet you on the southern path. His master and I ride with our reports. You will see us when the campaigns return."  
Smiling, he backed away. Paelin started down the path, turning once to bid farewell before she entered the camp of Men.

-

"Paehl," said Ablan curtly, tilting his head and acknowledging her approach.  
"Ablan," she replied.  
"You look like a boy."  
"That is generally the idea."  
They walked in tandem down the road cut by the camp's wagon tracks. In spots the plain's grasses were not completely removed, only flattened sharply to the earth. Other places saw deep holes squelched into the mud where furious swarms of footprints bespoke of the efforts to free captured wains.  
"They have no thoughts to travel light," he remarked wryly, raising an eyebrow at another muddied pit. A broken axle lay nearby.  
"Mmm."  
They continued in silence. Though the camp's hazardous lines of tents grew clearer, Paelin guessed that they still had half an hour's walk. Any useful sentries would already have given word of their approach.  
"What did your master tell you?" Paelin asked suddenly.  
Ablan whistled and stuck his hands in his belt.  
"I act as squire for the king's commander," he said. "That is their tradition. There are enemies within the court itself, and so I guard without loyalties to one lord or another." He stopped talking. "It is foolish," he continued. "My master knows the man; he is skilled enough to need no guard." His tone grew lighter. "At least we can see war. A squire stays by the lord's side even at the front line. _You_ have their prince," he concluded.  
"At least you _see_ war," Paelin muttered. "I get their coddled child, probably with no sense to raise a sword."  
"I'm sure he had tutors."  
"Who could not strike him a proper blow."  
"Royal decrees," mused Ablan, looking up at the sky. "What a world this is."  
"And of this fight they have brewing?"  
"I know no more than you."


End file.
